Less never than alive
by NPYD
Summary: Inhale. A sharp sound of expectations fulfilled. [Let's try this again. See warnings.]


_Because there aren't nearly enough sub!Castle fics. Beware, contains BDSM themes which - while safe, sane and consensual to the best of my knowledge and interpretation - are not everyone's cup of tea._

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**_Less never than alive_**

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Inhale. A sharp sound of expectations fulfilled. The braided leather cords wrap the skin of his shoulder in a wicked, too-brief embrace, the singing fingers of the leather through the still night air. The crack of contact hitting his ears on delay is rough, but the pain's already peaked and begun to fade into a low burn. He's supposed to keep his eyes closed, but he can't help it, can't resist giving her a quick look, to make sure she's okay.

Kate smiles sheepishly, glancing from him to the wondrous instrument in her hands, as if she just now understands its power, now she's seen it from the other side.

"Castle, are you-"

"Sure? More than, Kate." Her oft-abused bottom lip draws into her mouth again, but she needs to do this. He needs her to do this. He trusts her to keep going, when she's ready. She just needs a minute.

Castle allows his eyes to slide closed again, centering himself and focusing on breathing deeply, on being still and quiet, for neither are particular features of his natural state. Deep breaths; in, out. He waits.

The next blow to fall against his right side is welcomed, balances the sensations out, distracts him from the deeper pain of the first. Then they begin in earnest. Again, and again. Left. Right. Right. Left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Left.

The edge of the stinging pain, that much he becomes accustomed to quickly. It's the deep ache left behind that surprises him; the way he can feel every layer of skin, paper-thin and criss-crossed gossamer with red trails. It strains deeper, bullets of tension penetrating deeper into his back, sides, and shoulders with each strike of the whip, each thud of the leather knots at the end of each tail, each prickling-almost-tickling lash of the fine smaller falls at the very tip that wrap the edges of him.

A dark groan escapes him, of pleasure and pain, her assault halting momentarily, as if waiting for a word. Giving him an out. But an out is the last thing he wants. Castle waits again, eager for her resumed treatment, his heart drumming steadily in excitement and just a hint of fear. Is this what she feels, each time?

As his flesh rests, he feels the swelling begin, raised and warm and aching marks of her. He was wrong – she wasn't waiting for him to safeword out. She's waiting for him to recover just enough to make it twice as good-bad as before, as his body reacts and begins to heal itself, only for her to-

Crack.

He grunts through clenched teeth, snarling at her. It's _more_ than twice the pain. Just this side of too much. She retraces her biting steps, working back over her lines slowly, carefully tracing the evolution of her first masterpiece up the way she came. The knots knock against the protrusion of his spine, playing a magnificent tune accompanied by his varied growls and hisses. A cord slithers cruelly across the planes of his back, the crest of the whip punishing a tensed shoulder blade, an island of bone surrounded by overheated, welted skin.

Kate pulls the leather slowly across his skin, painstakingly gentle in her tease. The flat of the leather fringe slides across the welts she's painted, through the thin sheen of sweat that coats him and cools the few places she's not managed to cross yet.

She fixes that. Striking him again and again, the whip does its magic. He numbs out, feeling everything and nothing as the muscle-deep soreness throbs through him. He's too warm. Too lost in the sensations. Too zoned out. Too tired, nearly, to hold himself up. He's almost ready to fall over and shut down, when she reaches her first mark again, full circle.

"Five more. Count down," she requests, her voice wavering but sharp.

"Five," he grinds out, the immediate lick of the leather conditioning him on what's to come, for it's harder than before, almost too much.

"Four," to go, a burn of another blow against his tailbone, the top of his ass, it doesn't hurt as badly. He's almost done.

"Three," won't cry out, won't. Won't.

"Two," more, only two more he heaves the word out.

"One." A final curl of the falls around his sweaty and beautifully beaten body.

It stops. Eventually, so do the whines and keens he's been letting out without realizing.

He feels purged. Pure. Boneless and yet humming with life, blood pumping everywhere, hyperaware of every sensation as the adrenalin courses through him. It's not exactly a pleasant sensation, but he understands at last why she's so keen on it. Why she wheedled him – harder, harder, again, again – until what started as play with a simple riding crop escalated to this. And here they are, months later.

He worked on her for days to reverse their roles, to turn his grim skill back on himself. But he needed it. Did he ever. He needed to understand, and he thinks he does now. He won't question it again, when she brings him the whip and braids her hair to one side and sits patiently at the end of their bed.

Exhausted and relieved and reborn with thrumming arousal as she moves around him, he opens his eyes when she slides into his lap. Desperate for input that isn't pain, he breaks the rules – doesn't care – and kisses her soundly, her response a happy noise that goes a long way towards assuring him that she doesn't much care about obedience as long as he keeps his tongue stroking hers, keeps up its exploration of her cherry-flavored mouth, wet and warm.

Kate's prepared for him as well as he does for her: a cool, wet cloth with arnica oil ready. The first swipe of it across the back of his neck and shoulders makes him roar with irritation. It stings. They're done with stinging. But the gentle circles she rubs relax him, soothe the overheated flesh beneath, and he drops his head to her chest to allow her better access as his breathing steadies. Cheek resting on her breast, his lips press soft kisses to the fading scar – fading, but not nearly gone – at the center of her. Her work is tender and thorough, the arnica reducing the swelling already and her kindly touch calming his nerves. This part, he likes.

They're done, and he sighs in relief. She puts the cloth and its bowl aside, and no sooner have the nimble fingers of her left hand begun to play at his boxers. Castle raises an eyebrow at her. He certainly has no complaints – nor does his body, trembling from her work or not – but he assured her earlier they didn't need to do this. He knew it'd be hard on her. She's always owned her need for pain better than her desire to inflict it. But the shy plea in her eyes, the silent request for permission despite the fact that she still holds her instrument of domination, is enough to tell him she needs it. Needs the connection again; needs to be sure they're both okay.

He thinks he's got more freedom now, and he allows his large hands to wrap her waist, hooking his thumbs under the lace that covers her, fingertips stroking the pale skin covered by her thin tank top. She rewards him, shimmying up to rest her full weight on his thighs, sighing into his kiss and wriggling against the arousal that throbs between them.

A surprise, just for him. Another reward, tangible. He's fumbling uselessly with her panties, trying to work them down her legs and keep her pressed to him at the same time, when she guides his hands to the back, and he finds two little bows. Immediately, he gets the idea, gives a wolfish grin into her mouth and one synchronized yank to each lace, and the whole thing flies apart, falling undone at her sides. He rips the scrap of material away, squirming to kick off his boxers too.

No ceremony. She lines them up and Castle can't wait, can't take a tease. He simply pulls her down onto him, taking her roughly and his blunt head spreads her, knowing she likes that in spite of the squeak of pain she lets out. At last, they're joined fully, and she seems to know that she can be secure in what she's done. What they've done. The last tension dissipates from her and she gives a playful bite to his collarbone, tasting it immediately afterward.

She moves on him, finally allowing the handle of the dormant whip to drop from her grip to the floor with a dull thud as they hurtle quickly toward the end, neither needing much time given the intensity of the run-up. They're sloppy and uncoordinated, but little effort needs to be made. The delicious friction of the position allows him to scrape across her front wall, making her whimper and sigh with pleasure as he growls his own softly into her mouth. They're a contained inferno: her willing body a fiery vice, designed perfectly for him; his skin licked with the pattern of her design. Their connection stokes the coals, builds the warmth between them.

She's not long for control and he's not far behind her, mutual satisfaction leaving them pleasantly exhausted and trading lazy kisses as they come down, before reluctantly separating only long enough to move up the top of their inviting bed. She'd usually worm her way into his arms, lay across his chest and let him stroke her temporary tigress' stripes, but being on his back is not exactly comfortable. So he reclines on his side, propping his head up on one arm and watching her beneath him at her as she blinks adoringly up at him. Her eyes close.

Exhale. The sound of her relief is like music.

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_All apologies to e.e. cummings for aping his work for the title._

_Another experiment in writing for me. Would love to know your thoughts._


End file.
